


Boldly They Rode and Well

by FrenchTwistResistance



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-05
Updated: 2019-11-05
Packaged: 2021-02-01 01:43:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21319666
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrenchTwistResistance/pseuds/FrenchTwistResistance
Summary: Zelda is jealous. Hilda is oblivious.
Relationships: Hilda Spellman/Zelda Spellman
Comments: 4
Kudos: 42





	Boldly They Rode and Well

Hilda knows Zelda is cross. But Hilda’s hard pressed as to why. 

Hilda’s not typically into poetry, especially not boring white men like Tennyson, but if it fits, it fits. She may not be a six hundred, but a cross Zelda is an unreasonable Zelda. And an unreasonable Zelda is a possibly murderous Zelda.

Regardless, Hilda’s made her peace long ago. It’s not so bad to be dead. It’s not so bad to be killed. The bad part is the unreasonableness, the impotent feeling just before, when she’s unable to explain herself, when Zelda’s thinking something of her that probably isn’t true. She hates more than anything else to be misunderstood. And she hates, also, to misunderstand Zelda. (One reason among many she’s not into poetry.)

But a cross Zelda is nigh unknowable.

She has yet to find a reliable strategy.

So Hilda continues her regular life. 

She would tread carefully if she knew which floorboards were creaky. She would tread carefully if that would behoove her. She would tread carefully if she could ascertain how carefully she should tread and where and how.

But she can’t.

She’s tried it before, and it’s never produced any worthwhile dividends.

A cross Zelda is a cross Zelda until she’s not anymore.

It’s freeing in a way.

They’ve always been so tied to each other, so reliant and dependent upon each other. At least this is a reminder that they’re their own people with separate thoughts and emotions.

A cross Zelda is her own Zelda.

And so Hilda is her own Hilda.

xxx

Dinner is over.

Sabrina’s excused herself to her room to finish an essay. Ambrose has offered to clear plates and wash dishes, but Hilda has waved him off. Hilda has decided he has no business bearing cross Zelda’s crossness a moment longer, and he’s shot her a sympathetic glance as he retreats up the steps and she is gathering china.

It’s Hilda’s third trip back to the dining table, and she’s leaned over to reach for the butter dish.

And Zelda is suddenly standing behind her.

Hilda feels her long skirt’s being pushed up and up, cool fingertips skimming haphazardly against her legs.

Hilda shivers.

A firm, possessive grip on the inside of her left thigh. And then a voice in her ear:

“She called me a wanton hussy.”

“Oh?” Hilda says. Hilda drops the butter dish and braces herself against the table. 

A cross Zelda often breathes hot riddles into her ear. For fun, for an intellectual exercise, for some sport Hilda can hardly fathom.

Hilda knows Zelda’s cross. And cross Zelda is so many things.

Zelda’s fingers squeeze once more at her thigh and are soon at Hilda’s waist, possessive and digging in a few inches lateral from belly button, not yet to hipbone.

“And you agree with her,” Zelda says, low and seductive and accusatory into Hilda’s ear.

Zelda’s hips are against Hilda’s backside. There is sharpness—bone underneath skin. Friction, movement, rustling. There is wetness—vulva and no underwear. Hilda is too focused trying to assess the situation with any sense she can access—feeling, hearing—that she can’t help but buck, answer, meet. 

“What person am I supposed to be agreeing with?” Hilda pants.

There’s now a hand snaking up her side and then around her throat, knuckles bent. And another, different hand digging into her hip as Zelda thrusts her hips forcefully against her backside.

“You know whom to agree with. You know whom you belong to.”

Zelda grips the back of Hilda’s neck and uses this leverage to press Hilda’s face against the polished surface of the dining table. Hilda’s right cheek is flat against the table, her body at a right angle.

Zelda slats her body against Hilda’s, tightens her grip on her throat, lets her mouth fall open and her teeth graze the back of Hilda’s neck.

“Well, yes, of course,” Hilda eeks out. “But—”

Zelda tightens her grip on Hilda’s throat, sinks her nails into Hilda’s hip, says,

“I saw you.” She drags her nails over from Hilda’s hip to the small of her back to unzip her skirt and tug it down, rough and quick. “I heard you.” Zelda’s hand is back at the small of Hilda’s back and then traveling up under her blouse. Nails at lower rib cage, scratching from back to front, settling just under a breast. “And you don’t have anything to say for yourself.” Zelda presses her body closer, her fingers on Hilda’s throat firm.

Cross Zelda is often jealous Zelda. Aroused Zelda. Dominant Zelda. Dangerous Zelda. Hilda’s is not to reason why but to do and die. Hilda doesn’t know whether she’d rather do or die. Both have their benefits. Both have their disadvantages.

Hilda’s body decides for her—

Hilda’s hips buck, and they both groan, and Zelda’s fingers on her trachea loosen slightly. Hilda croaks out,

“What could I say that could satisfy you?”

Zelda laughs.

And then a hand on Hilda’s breast, squeezing, palpating, finger and thumb teasing a nipple. And the hand that had been on throat now tangled in blonde hair, pulling.

“Satisfy me?” Zelda laughs. “The best you could do is to not offend me.”

Yet.

Zelda’s wantonly grinding herself against Hilda.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Hilda says, voice ragged against the dining table and Zelda’s fingers back again at her throat.

“Of course you don’t.” Zelda readjusts. “I can’t ever figure out whether you’re playing dumb or actually dumb.” Zelda further readjusts. “Or whether I care either way.”

Zelda penetrates her—two fingers, wet heat, a breathy puff of exertion on cervical spine.

“Oh!” It’s all Hilda can say. It’s also the least Hilda can say.

“Shirley Jackson could never—” Zelda starts.

“Is that what you’re worried about?” Hilda manages.

Zelda’s piercing eyes. Pain at her trachea.

“Am I a wanton hussy or not?” 

Cannon to right of them.

“You’re certainly a wanton hussy. But so am I.”

While horse and hero fell.

Hilda doesn’t particularly like poetry, but she can make an exception.

**Author's Note:**

> A little late. October group chat prompt: Zelda catches Shirley trying to make a move on Hilda (Hilda enjoys it). But Zelda punishes her for enjoying it.


End file.
